Mimosas and martinis: the fine madness of waiting tables

Rejection letters always start off the same. Thank you for your interest. After careful consideration, we've chosen another candidate. blah blah blah blah.

My "stack" - rejection letters

I've started a small collection of rejection letters. Some may say this is masochistic. I thought so, too, when I'd heard of people saving rejection letters in the past. A friend once saved every rejection letter he'd received from the literary journals he'd submitted work to.

Each letter (and a lot of them are electronic, so I don't have hard copies) is a reminder of something I wanted, something I invested and believed in. And, I have to believe that with each rejection comes the possibility of honing my skills, building character, an opportunity to adapt and add grace to my life.

I started waiting tables two weeks ago, and so far, here's what I know: it's a hella more difficult to wait tables at 40 than it was at 25. But, I walked in on a Monday to fill out an application, and walked back into the same restaurant on Wednesday ready to serve. It's a fairly swanky, one-of-a-kind local place where people order mimosas with Sunday brunch and martinis with Porterhouse steaks.

Here's what else I know: you have to be willing. When you are willing, opportunities present themselves. 

Author Cheryl Strayed said in Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar, “Most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be. Sometimes you'll put up a good fight and lose. Sometimes you'll hold on really hard and realize there is no choice but to let go. Acceptance is a small, quiet room.”

My small quiet room is a bustling room of mimosas and martinis, of chicken marsalas and porterhouse steaks, of American Express and Visa. And every day I'm hustling.

For whatever reason, this is what presented itself to me at this time. I've chosen to embrace it with love and as much grace as I can muster. I have to believe there is a method to the madness.

I'm lying on my hammock half dozing, lulled by a warm breeze that sways the hammock gently from side to side. Above me, tiny buds emerge from the small stand of dogwood trees that support the hammock cradling me; beyond the branches, the sky is a delicious azure. Bald eagles screech and  red-winged black birds call from trees surrounding the Ranch's seven acres.

I am savoring this day off and have vowed to stay off my feet -- and outside -- as much as possible. I've curled up with a copy of Kathleen Norris's The Cloister Walk,  which seems perfect.

I open the book to a random page, and find this:

“Prayer is not asking for what you think you want, but asking to be changed in ways you can't imagine.”

Amen. 

Thanks to my friend Jim for recommending The Cloister Walk.